In aforetime,

a beautiful day,
in the fall, where do tree leaves,
come alive in their spring,

all children out in the bent to play,
in a world of cunning-handed colours,
our toes well in the sun,
hanging off a tyre swing.

God painted us a dream,

the brush of eaves aloof,
as leaves blow in winds. Even after the rain,
we joyously rush out to play,
inside the assuage cracks of mud,

stained feet and a mother's complaints,
as was their display of love;
hearing them call brood to their bath.

God painted us a dream,

on the open wings,
spread open for us to feel free,
I can't help my remembrance of
such a wonderful day,

without a reason to hold onto money,
being okay in life's once okay.

The picture has now turned grey.